‘I’ll take you up on that offer, hun.’

Justin spots the driver holding up a clipboard for the Golden Beach Resort, with his full name, Justin Bailey, written in black marker pen on the attached sheet of paper. He shakes the driver’s hand and pats him on the back, calling him ‘my friend’. We’re led to a minibus, the resort’s logo printed on the sliding silver door. It’s a struggle against nature, but we get inside thanks to the driver’s help, and wait for him to load the bags into the back as the vehicle rocks from side to side. There’s nobody else on the bus.

‘Fancy for a hostel,’ I say, referring to our private ride.

‘Oh, it’s not a hostel. This place looked too good to resist, and for a great price. It has a beautiful lagoon pool and the rooms are right on the beach.’

The drive takes about thirty minutes and neither Justin nor I are particularly chatty. It’s a blend of hangover, the weather and the inescapable fact that we barely know one another. I don’t feel awkward, just tired and spaced out. I watch the intense rain from inside the minibus, the heavy clouds seeming rather permanent over something soon to pass. When we arrive in Hoi An, the driver crawls through some residential streets and pulls over outside a guest house called the Garden Villa.

‘You stay here,’ the driver says, looking at Justin through his rear-view mirror.

‘I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ Justin says, leaning forwards. ‘I’m booked to stay at the beach resort.’

‘No. You stay here.’ And the driver pushes his door open against the wind.

He removes the luggage from the back, running ahead into the guest house with our bags. Justin tells me to wait here as he heaves the passenger door open, grunting as he does so. I’m not pleased about it. What if the minibus topples over into the middle of the road? The tall palm trees lining the pavements look terrified: they’re no longer vertical, shaking with uncontrollable fear.

I get out.

And, whoa – I manage to get the minibus door open, but I can’t close it. My hair sticks to my face; my t-shirt and skirt fly upwards. I bear down, bend my legs and, as I howl something animalistic, the door shifts and I slide it shut with a hefty slam. Keeping one hand on my skirt and another holding back my hair, I stumble down the stepping-stone footpath and into the guest house.

‘No, this isn’t where I’m staying.’ Justin is arguing, calmly, with the receptionist.

The driver is repeating what he said before, only more firm. ‘You. Stay. Here.’

‘Typhoon, sir,’ the receptionist is saying.

Justin shakes his head. ‘But this isn’t typhoon season.’

‘It happens,’ she laughs. ‘Typhoon coming.’